Fine
by Kaz1167
Summary: There is a fine line between the right amount of distance, the right amount of time, and losing something, losing someone.


Mako runs his hand through his hair for what must be the thirtieth time that day as a heavy sigh falls from his lips. His eyes flick to the clock, each "tick" echoing in his ears, the voices of his neighboring detectives grating on his frayed nerves. Tired of answering the onslaught of hushed questions and meeting the prodding gazes of his colleagues, he simply needs this day to end.

He was fine. Why would the news have bothered him in the slightest? Of course he was fine.

He watches as the second hand _ticks_ into place, his body rising too quickly in response, his head spinning. He must be coming down with a cold; he can't think of any other reason for him to be this short of breath. He shakes his head once, tries to inhale as deeply as he can, and tells himself to get a grip. He's fine.

_"Mako, did you see the papers?"_

_"Not yet, why?"_

_"Oh, so you haven't heard…"_

_"Heard what?"_

He trails through the winding hallways of the police station, watches the rain crack viciously against the windows. He could go back to his apartment, grab his umbrella, change; no, that would take too long and he had already let time slip away from him once. He leaves the building, a voice urging him to run, but his feet do not agree with the request and he walks slowly, letting the rain soak through his shirt, his scarf, even his gloves. The rain doesn't matter; after all, he's fine.

_"The Avatar's engaged. Yeah, yeah, to some water tribe guy she's known for a few years or something."_

_"What?"_

_"Yeah, the article said they'd been seeing each other whenever she visited the water tribe. He's a water healer or something. Trained under Master Katara."_

_"Oh. Uh, well. Good for her. Them. Good for them."_

_"You used to be pretty close to her—the Avatar—right? Still talk much?"_

_"I'm… I'm not any closer to her than anyone else she's known since coming here, I guess."_

He turns the corner, the old, gray apartment building coming into sight, his pace speeding up with each question that rushes through his head. When had they drifted so far apart? When did he become just another friend? Why didn't he know about this guy before today? When did she meet him? When did she fall in love with him? When did she stop loving _him_?

Cold, shaking, he knocks on her door. The hall is quiet, save for the sound of water sliding off of him and pattering onto the wood floor. He knocks again, his chest tightening once more as the prospect of not seeing her _now_ crosses his mind.

He finally hears shuffling beyond the door, before it creaks open. Her face is calm, serene even, before her eyes settle on him, a trace of shock and something more in their depths, but they shift to a blankness he has been staring at for years.

"Mako, hi…Come in." She pulls back, lets him enter, before she crosses the apartment, and he's not sure where to start. She disappears into the recesses of her room, tossing him a towel when she reemerges. She doesn't sit, doesn't offer him a seat, and he feels the strain of his feelings pulled taught, ready to snap, an inner ache he has been ignoring for years leeching away the warmth he rubs into his skin. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you." No point in lying to her now; he's already let four years slip away from him under the lure of easy lies and complacency.

She stares, her eyes cold, distrusting, and she does not respond. Something flickers across her face faster than Mako can translate its meaning and she crosses to the kitchen, filling a kettle with water.

"So I take it you heard? Come to make some dramatic declaration about how you're still in love me after all this time, then?"

Her hand hesitates on the faucet for only a second, but he catches the stuttered movement and watches a tired, confused expression slip over her usually vibrant features. He notices the bags under her eyes and wonders if they're from troubled sleep or preoccupied nights with whoever the hell this water tribe guy is and he wonders when he last _really _looked at her—when did those little laugh lines appear near her eyes (who had put them there)? How long had she been wearing her hair in that style (when did she stop smiling so easily for him)?

He sees traces of _him_ in her space: the too large coat hanging over the sofa, the books on healing scattered across her coffee-table, the brown boots near the door, and—

The realization that his confession is nothing more than half-full words hits him, hard; it is no more than a fantasy founded on ancient whispers shared at night and dusty memories. He does not know the woman before him, not really, and knowing her four years ago is as meaningful as attempting to speak a once beautiful dead language to unlearned listeners. He loves the Korra he knew then, does not doubt he would love the Korra in front of him, and he knows she _knows_. But, he cannot say he loves _her_ in this moment, cannot selfishly claim that his faded memory of their love holds weight as he stands before her, the subtle changes in her appearance hardly speaking to who the woman in this cramped apartment kitchen is now. She turns and sets the full kettle on the burner, and a resignation, an acceptance, heavily seeps into him like the rain he so recently escaped, covering but not replacing the short-of-breath, aching feeling in his chest. A small, saddened smile forces its way onto his face; she is not the only one who has changed.

"I heard about the engagement from someone at work and realized we haven't talked in a while. I didn't even know you were seeing anyone, but congratulations on…everything." He doesn't like the words, the way they hang in the air between them. They don't mean _I love you_ and they feel wrong leaving his lips, but he thinks they're the _right _thing to say right now.

She meets his eyes at that, evaluates him in the wake of her surprise, and pulls the whistling kettle off of the burner, pouring water into the two cups she prepared in his silence. Mugs in hand, she crosses to the table, sets one in the empty space across from her, before sitting down and casually propping her legs up on the chair beside her. He crosses and sits, relieved to know that this much about her is still the same.

"It's been a while since I've seen you. Almost five months, I think."

"Yeah, you were traveling, right? In the Fire Nation?"

She nods, sips her tea, another look he can't read on her face.

A beat of silence.

"He makes me happy."

"That's good." He sips his own tea, refusing to look away from her eyes, hoping to discern the truth to her statement, if there is anything hidden within her crystal blue gaze, but he can't tell anymore. It doesn't make his heart ache or his body numb; but he can't remember feeling this _sad_ in a long time.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine."


End file.
